


November Rain

by junkieboyfriend



Category: Trainspotting (Movies), Trainspotting Series - Irvine Welsh
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, No closure, Self-blaming, Suicide, Unhappy Ending, Unresolved Emotional Tension, simon's dad dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:28:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26833690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/junkieboyfriend/pseuds/junkieboyfriend
Summary: “Aye?”“Sorry aboot yer loss, catboy.”“‘S fine, ‘n dun call us that.”“Awe, aye, I’ve goat something tae tell yis, but, later likesay.”“Aye? ‘S important?”“Ah heard sumthin’ aboot Rent Boy.”“Mah place aftir here?”“Aye.”Simon never smiles in November anymore.
Relationships: Mark "Rent Boy" Renton & Simon "Sick Boy" Williamson, Mark "Rent Boy" Renton/Simon "Sick Boy" Williamson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	November Rain

He awoke in a horrible sweat that cool November night. He was alone in his bed and the bedside table read three in the morning. Nothing was wrong, just a bad dream that was becoming a fleeting memory. Simon allowed himself to sink back into the bed and fall asleep.

His father died two days later and as Simon stared at his father’s dead face, he felt nothing but relief. Finally, the man was dead and gone, unable to hurt anyone anymore. Yet, his mother wailed and moped on like his father had been someone else… Someone good. Simon couldn’t understand it. He found that he was wrong, even though his father was dead, he still found a way to make his mother cry. Of course he had. He was a bastard.

Simon stood at his father’s burial, face blank, not a tear. He watched with cruel eyes as the box was lowered into the ground. His mother was almost hysterical and Simon felt only contempt. How could she miss him? The awful fucking man he was. 

How could Simon cry for him? He was a sorry excuse for a father, a laughable imposter of a husband, and a waste of basic human life. He wished he could be normal like the rest of them, cry and fit in… But he couldn’t, he knew the truth about his father. He knew. 

So the blond buttoned up his coat and went his separate way for a smoke. 

The last funeral he was at was for Tommy, before that it was Renton’s brother. Mark didn’t cry at the funeral until later on when he gave a speech; Simon wished he could give a speech like that… But nothing Simon said about his father would ever bring him to tears. Maybe Mark was just  _ that  _ good with words.

He’d missed Renton in times like these, when he was alienated by his family. He hadn’t spoken to his friend in a long time, not since he’d taken the money and fucked off. Simon was mad at first, but now he was just sad. He wished he could call, but he didn’t have Mark’s number or any semblance of an idea about where he’d gone off to. 

All Simon knew was that Mark wasn’t coming back. Ever.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see Spud smiling at him, with that sad sympathetic look in his eyes. Simon did not need this right now. 

“Aye?”

“Sorry aboot yer loss, catboy.”

“‘S fine, ‘n dun call us that.”

“Awe, aye, I’ve goat something tae tell yis, but, later likesay.”

“Aye? ‘S important?”

“Ah heard sumthin’ aboot Rent Boy.”

“Mah place aftir here?”

“Aye.”

After the funeral Spud and Simon catch a cab to his flat, they settle in the living room and Spud begins to spill the information.

“Ma cousin does photography, likesay, an’ he wis snappin pictures the other day doon in Amsterdam.”

Simon blew air out between his lips, “Amsterdam.” he repeated mockingly 

“Nae, really, an’ he goat a picture of what kinda looks tae be Rent Boy.”

Spud pulled an envelope out of his pocket and took out some pictures, putting them down on the coffee table. There are two distinct ones that show Renton clearly, one of him on a porch sipping coffee and another with him checking the mailbox in the background. 

Simon looked at the pictures, surprised by the legitimacy and that he could make out Mark’s address on the house. He looks at Spud, quirked eyebrow and all.

“So, you’re tellin’ me, yer cousin was daein photography in Amsterdam and accidentally found the long lost Mark Renton of Lieth.”

“Awe, aye, catboy, Ah jus’ think ye should consider it.”

“Mibbe.”

The blond was ready and on his way at the soonest possible time to confront Mark. He was approaching the street, everything looked exactly like the pictures and Simon was approaching the house, as the number got closer and closer to matching. Then, he was standing there. Simon was standing outside of Mark Renton’s house and his new life, just inches from knocking. 

He stared at the door, all this time, he’d been waiting for this moment. When he could finally get some answers, some closure on why Mark left him.  _ Mark left him. _ Simon touched the wood of the door gently, it was cold. Everything about this house was cold and it all felt wrong. As Simon stood on the porch, insecurities sunk in and he realized what he was doing. He couldn’t do this anymore, Mark was gone, he left because he wanted to. He left Simon because he wanted to. Simon needed to accept it. 

Tears welled in his eyes as he looked at the wooden door and he knew.

He couldn’t knock.

Simon steps away, defeated, hurt, rejected, like he had been all those years ago. He needed to stop this. He was too old. So Simon picked himself up, feeling like the lowest he ever had, and went back home. 

Back to where his mother still cried, his father was still dead, Spud was still bothering him, and Mark was still gone.  _ He was gone because he wanted to be. _

Simon awoke in a cold sweat that night, this time accompanied by thunder and tears. The nightmare was worse this time, not just fading into absurdity, and his body trembled as he read the clock; two in the morning. Simon eases back into bed, alone in the silent flat, he tries to sleep but finds it’s easier to just cry.

The next day Spud calls over the phone with bad news; 

_ Mark Renton is dead.  _

Simon drops the phone and his cigarette. He hears a distant ringing, that grows louder when he feels himself getting progressively more worked up.  _ How could he have done this? Why? _ If he'd known he would’ve ran inside. If he would’ve known he’d have burst in there and done something, anything to stop it…  _ I was a coward _ .

“Not Mark.”

He couldn’t believe it. It couldn’t be true.

“Mark wouldnae-”

Simon collapsed to the floor, sliding down the side of the wall, staring aimlessly ahead as he’s taken over with emotion. He never feels this much. Never. It was all too much, overwhelming him as he curls in on himself, he’d never felt so much pain and hopelessness. He’d just been inches from Mark, his last chance… 

“Oh Mark.”

Simon held onto a jacket Mark had left at his place long ago; keeping it close to his chest as tears poured from his eyes like an endless stream. Why didn’t he at least get to see him one last time? Say one more thing? Why had he just run away? Regret runs through him like a drug, but it only brings him down lower and makes him wish he and Mark would switch. Mark deserved to live more anyway.  _ Simon thought so, anyway. _ Mark had more promise in school, he held regular jobs, had steady girlfriends, and was a better person, Simon knew it and he’d wished it’d been him that died first.

The phone was off and the dial tone was going but Simon couldn’t move. He was exhausted and losing his mind. He thought he’d fix things eventually… But that never came. Some things never get better. He felt it now more than ever; regret. Simon wanted to tell him the truth, that could never happen now. He was too late.

As Simon lay on his floor, feeling utterly alone and lost… He knew he was pretty much dead on the inside anyway. He’d already lost his best friend, what else did he have to lose?

“I loved you.”

Simon looked at the cloth he had in his fists, it was the only thing left of him. The only thing left of Mark Renton. The boy who the world chewed up and spat back out; the boy who wanted to start over but realized it isn’t that simple, it never was and it never will be. The jacket Simon was holding was all that he had left of his best friend. And as he looked at that jacket he let his denial fall from his shoulders and the weight flutter away from his chest.

“I loved you, Mark.”

Mark was gone but Simon still held onto that piece of him, never forgetting his best friend and the man who stole his heart. 

Simon never smiles in November anymore.


End file.
